


Shrouded Truths

by Rosalindfan



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalindfan/pseuds/Rosalindfan
Summary: Set pre-canon (1927), Christopher Foyle is a newly promoted Detective Sergeant. When a call comes in from an outlying village he and Inspector Browning find more than they bargained for. Meanwhile Foyle's young wife and son must deal with uncertainty and worry.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Shrouded Truths

**November 1927**

“When will Dad be home, Mum? I’m starving.”

Rosalind poked the disintegrating potatoes which had been simmering for nearly half an hour and would now need to be mashed.

“I don’t know, Andrew. Why don’t you go and see if he’s coming up the hill?”

She drained the potatoes and attacked them with a fork. Christopher hated mashed potatoes, but it couldn’t be helped - him being so late. The meat had fallen off the bone of the pork knuckle in the saucepan and the vegetables in there were so well cooked as to be unrecognisable.

Andrew bounded back into the small steamy kitchen. “No sign of him, and it’s starting to get foggy.”

“Well that won’t bother your dad. He won’t get lost, don’t worry.”

“It’s my stomach I’m worried about.” Andrew grinned broadly at his mum.

“We’ll give him a quarter of an hour, then we’ll eat without him. Since you’re on the brink of fading away.”

Rosalind ruffled his dark hair, so unlike his father’s soft curls, and Andrew squirmed.

Fifteen minutes later she served the three portions and put one, covered by another plate, in the oven with the gas on the lowest setting. Hopefully it would still be edible on her husband’s return.

Foyle’s stomach rumbled and he realised that it was well after his usual meal-time. Not that he felt like eating with the bodies of two young men and a young woman on the wooden floorboards of the village Post Office. Another man, older, was sitting on a chair brought through from the back of the shop while his wife tended to a wound on the back of his head.

Sawdust had been scattered on the floor by an enthusiastic Constable Dent before Foyle and Inspector Browning had arrived. Foyle knew the man meant well but any pattern of bloodstains was now destroyed. Patterns - that was what a lot of policing was about, Foyle reckoned; the patterns of behaviour of individuals, the pattern of particular crimes or areas, even the pattern of the blood pooled on the floor could be a useful clue to what had happened. DI Browning hadn’t quite understood when he’d explained it to him- his theory of patterns - but he always made sure that the young newly-promoted Detective Sergeant Foyle accompanied him on anything but the most routine of cases. And this case was far from routine, Foyle could count on one hand the number of murders he had to deal with since he joined up.

“And it was this one who threatened you with the gun?” Browning asked the wounded man, pointing to one of the bodies. “Then you shot him?”

“It was. Harry tried to get the gun off him and, buff, he was on the floor. He turned round when Dorothy screamed and shot her, but I sort of struggled with him and the gun went off again. It could have been me dead!”

His wife began to cry again and Foyle stepped in. “Mrs. Tanner, did you see any of this?”

The woman wiped her eyes and launched into a description of what she’d seen; how their son, Harry had come in during the robbery with his young lady, Dorothy, and attempted to stop the gunman.

Foyle stepped back and spoke to Dent, who had been first on the scene. “What have you done with the gun?”

The uniformed man looked puzzled and his eyes travelled around the floor as if the gun would suddenly spring into sight. Foyle’s heart sank. If Dent hadn’t moved it, where was it?

Suddenly the older man, Tanner, who’d spoken only to Browning looked at Foyle. “The other bloke took it. The tall bloke with the flat cap. Picked it up, whacked me over the head and legged it!”

Foyle raised his eyebrows at Browning. “Let’s start at the beginning again, shall we?”

Rosalind came downstairs and removed the covered plate from the oven. It would be no use keeping it warm any longer – the meat would be dried to strips of leather and the vegetable gravy thick enough to cut with a knife. When Christopher came home he’d have to make do with a sandwich or soup from a tin. Andrew had taken an age to settle down; at nearly nine years of age he understood that sometimes Dad had to stay and work after his usual time but he worried. Goodness knows why, when she worked so hard at hiding her own concerns, never showing how an unexplained absence made her imagination run haywire and picture Christopher battered in a fight, stabbed by some desperate burglar or worse, as had happened elsewhere, run down and killed by an escaping vehicle.

Shaking her head to dispel the images, Rosalind scraped the dried-up food into the bin. He would be home soon, complaining about his Inspector, or relating the incompetency of some sergeant or other. She smiled to herself as she thought of how he always said how much he disliked his job despite the way he quietly glowed when he was the one to solve a case, find the link that no-one else could. It was the perfect job for him with his ability to solve puzzles and his common-sense understanding of how people ticked. He would be home soon – he had to be.

Foyle rubbed his forehead and tried to think. This was looking like something bigger than a Post Office raid; the presence of guns and the willingness to use them made him uneasy. There was something niggling the back of his mind – something he couldn’t place. It was after nine o’clock and he was finding it difficult to concentrate. He’d have to find some way of letting Rosalind know that he may not be home tonight; she never complained when he was late, she understood the irregular hours his job required but he didn’t want her worrying. Not that she ever appeared to – she was always calm and sensible which was one of the things that attracted him to her. He’d interviewed suspects who’d acted like children - adults who should know better, should be able to control their emotions. He’d tried to understand that behaviour which was alien to him. He’d been brought up to show restraint, to control his feelings and behave with composure just as Rosalind had.

Fred Dent stood against the wall, kicking himself for not realising the absence of a gun. The DS had clocked that straight away, and although Foyle hadn’t said a word the look on his face was enough. Foyle hadn’t been happy about the sawdust either, although goodness knows why – the sheen on the drying blood was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. And they were all dead – that much was obvious.

Now both Foyle and the DI were making notes and asking questions that seemed to have no relevance whatsoever. Oh well, they must know what they’re doing, being plain clothes and all.

He stood up straighter as Browning left Mrs Tanner and turned to Foyle who was examining the contents of the dead girl’s handbag.

“Foyle, I think we need to make sense of this tonight,” he heard Browning say. “Send Dent on his way and we’ll finish up here when we can.”

Thank God for that, Dent thought. At least I’ll get to sleep in a bed tonight. And there’ll be a plate of something hot waiting for me.

Foyle approached him. “Sorry, sir,” Dent started, “about the gun -.”

But Foyle raised a hand impatiently brushing his apology aside. “Fred, could you do me a favour?” he asked quietly. “Call in at my house and let my wife know I’m going to be very late. No, tell her I may not be back tonight at all. 31, Steep Lane, you know it?”

Dent breathed a sigh of relief. “I can do that Sir. It’s not far out of my way. Happy to.”

He nodded towards the now covered bodies. “May well be an all-nighter, eh?”

Foyle grimaced. “Watch how you go in this fog, Fred. And thanks.”

He flashed Dent a brief smile. He was a good-looking chap, Foyle, but far too serious in Dent’s opinion. He’d tolerate a bit of horse-play amongst the lads, but never join in - strange. Still, he was always on the ball when it came to crime of any sort, a useful chap to have on the force.

Dent got on his bicycle and started back towards the station. He hated this beat, out on the north-eastern fringes of the area, all the tiny villages that were lucky if they had a pub, a shop and a Post Office. He’d be happy to see the back of it, with all the hills and roads some of which were nothing more than muddy tracks. The fog was getting thicker as he went down the hill towards town and he didn’t see the car until the last moment; he wobbled precariously and came to a stop.

“Evening, sir,” he said to the flat-capped man in the driving seat. “Dangerous place to park, this.”

It was the last thing he’d ever say.

She’d tried some mending, tried her favourite book, she’d even tried getting her sketch pad and planning a new sequence of watercolours of the river – nothing worked. Rosalind was unable to concentrate on anything. Instead she sat in her chair, across the hearth from Christopher’s and watched the patterns in the burning fire. As a child she’d loved to sit in a darkened winter room with just the firelight illuminating the space, dark shadows playing in the corners. She’d been sitting like that the rainy January afternoon in 1915, when she was just twelve years old, the afternoon that the telegram had arrived. Her brother Charles had left the previous week, his basic training completed, and her eldest brother, William, had been gone three months. The doorbell had rung and she’d heard Father murmuring in the hallway, indistinct conversation with no hint of what was to come.

It was Mother who’d explained that William wouldn’t be coming home, that his body would be buried in France. Mother had sat as composed and as poised as she had been the previous afternoon when the vicar had come for tea, and talked about heroism and duty and freedom. And when Rosalind had sobbed at the thought of William so far away and all alone Mother had spoken about strength and resilience and being brave. She’d not understood then; she’d not really understood until Christopher’s nightmares and fleeting moments of panic had made her insist on knowing the truth of his experiences. That was when she discovered why William’s body was not buried with all the other family members in the churchyard. That was when she realised that there may not have been a body at all.

She sat and waited.

The temperature had dropped sharply by the time Foyle and his boss had finished taking statements, and before they could go anywhere the ice had to be scraped off the car windows. DI Browning was considered a little eccentric by the staff at Hastings Police Station in that he insisted on driving himself rather than have a driver as most high-ranking officers did. Consequently he was at the wheel when they came down the hill. Foyle, in the passenger seat was squinting through the fog swirling in the headlights when he saw the obstruction at the side of the road.

“Watch it, Sir! Something large in the gutter here.”

Browning braked and swerved, swearing at the way the car slid across the road. Once at the bottom of the hill the fog was so thick that the sides of the narrow lane were indistinguishable. They crept along a few yards before Browning stopped, pulling into a gateway and scraping the car against the hedge.

“Well, Foyle,” he said, turning off the engine “looks like we’re here for the night. Not safe to carry on.”

Foyle pulled his overcoat tighter and wished he was still in uniform – the standard issue greatcoats were the warmest things he’d ever worn.

“Andrew, time to get up,” Rosalind put her head around his bedroom door. “Hurry up, I’m making breakfast.”

She returned downstairs and tidied any evidence of her night spent in the chair. She’d dozed fitfully, jerking awake at every creak of the old house settling, the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby, the milkman’s horse and cart at five o’clock. She’d seen Christopher lying on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, stretched out on the slab in the hospital mortuary, hastily buried in a shallow grave. She’d seen his funeral, her holding Andrew’s hand while he cried and she stood stiff and formal and too empty to feel anything at all. Eventually she’d stopped even trying to sleep and had busied herself clearing the ashes and relaying the fire. When she’d opened the curtains it was to a world shrouded in thick fog which muffled even the sound of the sea.

Andrew’s feet clattered down the stairs and she spooned out porridge, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his portion.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Sit down and eat, love. Dad’s not home yet. He’s working on a very difficult case and he’ll be home when he can.”

“Oh.” Andrew picked up his spoon. “Did he send a message?”

Rosalind hesitated. They’d agreed long ago, once Andrew started asking endless questions, that they would always tell him the truth; perhaps not all of the truth, but never a lie. What should she say? If she told him there’d been no word he’d want to wait and would probably refuse to go to school. A fragment of a brief dream came to her – Christopher waving to her as she sat on the cliff-top at her easel.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “he sent me a message, so you’re not to worry.”

“Have you looked outside, Mum? The tree is covered with ice and the fog is so thick I couldn’t see the ground. I think it’s too thick to go to school. I’ll get lost.”

“Then I shall come with you, to make sure you find your way.”

Andrew was as silent as the foggy street as he ate his porridge.

Dawn had broken although the only effect it had was to make the fog paler. Foyle squeezed out of the car and stretched his cramped legs. There was an eerie silence around the vehicle and his voice sounded strange to his ears as he spoke.

“What do you think, Sir? Going to try to get back?”

Browning stamped his feet. “Can’t stop here, that’s for sure. Jump in, let’s give it a go.”

The car edged forward slowly. The interior was as cold as the fog around them as they hung out of the windows to judge their position. They stopped often to scrape away the ice. Eventually they reached a spot where the fog was thinner and the road split. Foyle got out and looked for a signpost but there was nothing to indicate the way and no landmarks visible to orientate them. They took the wider of the roads. It proved to be a poor decision as the road rapidly narrowed and became a morass of icy puddles.

“Look out for somewhere I can turn this thing,” Browning instructed.

Foyle vaguely registered his words. He had been thinking about the contents of the gunman’s coat – the usual small change, dirty handkerchief and so on, but also a book of betting slips, poorly printed. His mind had searched the collection of facts it stored and he had remembered what had eluded him previously. A very similar incident he’d read about in the newspaper, somewhere in Kent, two gunmen in a Post Office, the postmaster shot. From descriptions the police believed them to have links with the Sabini gang in London – the gang that controlled the racecourses.

A gap in the high bank proved to be a gateway and Browning ordered him out to guide his turn. Foyle stepped out into ankle-deep icy sludge and swore under his breath. He moved around the car and stopped. The ice was broken on all the puddles, frozen slush instead of smooth mirrors.

“Something’s been down here very recently, Sir,” he said as Browning gaped at him. “I think we should go on.”

Browning considered his suggestion. “And find a farmer having his breakfast?” His face brightened. “Good idea, Foyle!”

The car continued down the track.

Andrew had happily joined his friends on the way to school, childish voices calling and making ghostly sounds in the cold dense mist. Rosalind left him with reassurances she did not feel herself and set off for the centre of town. Constable Rivers was behind the desk. She explained her problem.

“Well, Mrs Foyle, I saw the car logged out by Mr Browning but when it wasn’t logged in I assumed he’d driven himself home. He does that sometimes. But you say Mr Foyle’s not come back? Hmm.”

He frowned at the log book. Rosalind breathed deeply.

“Never mind, Constable.” She forced a smile, “They’re probably just stuck in this dreadful fog. They’ll be home cold and hungry, no doubt.”

A thought struck her. “What was the call out to?”

Rivers checked the day book and his face drained of colour.

“A shooting.”

Rosalind’s shoulders stiffened as she smiled again. “Thank you, Rivers. Goodbye.”

The cold air made her eyes water.

The car pulled up outside the building at the end of the track. Tyre marks led behind it but there was no sign of life, and no smoke from the chimney.

“No cup of tea, then,” Browning said. “But we’ll have a look anyway.”

He turned off the engine and opened his door. There was the sound of another door opening and a shot rang out, loud in the surrounding silence.

“Bloody hell!” Browning exclaimed as he threw himself down behind the door.

Foyle kept his body low as he got out of the car and peered through the mist. An icy wind had sprung up and the swirls of fog made him think of colours in the water jar as Rosalind washed her brush. Don’t! Don’t think of them; keep your mind on the job. His feet were lumps of frozen lead; they didn’t belong to him. He hobbled as he moved slowly along the hedge towards the building, where a door stood ajar.

Browning was still crouched behind the car door. “Fine way to greet a visitor!” Browning called.

Good man – keep their eyes on you, on the car. How many? Impossible to tell. One – probably take him, two – possible, more – no chance. Oh, Roz, my love. Focus, man, think! He edged closer, ignoring the pain in his feet; he flexed his fingers, swollen with the cold. The tip of a gun barrel visible through the door; revolver or shotgun? Can’t tell. Slam the door on it, open again quickly, element of surprise. Can Browning cover the distance in time? Don’t let Andrew forget me, love. Two more steps, not too close. Judge it carefully, only one chance here.

The door opened further and he pressed himself to the wall, willing himself invisible.

“Who are you?” A voice, not local, and rough as if from disuse. Alone then? A chance?

Browning waved his hat above the car door. He was good at this – playing the fool, but Foyle knew the man had an underlying courage behind the blustering appearance.

“Me? Nobody. Got lost in this fog and haven’t had a cuppa since yesterday. Any chance of one now?”

“Clear off, mister!”

Would he step outside? Into the doorway? A lucky slam of the door could break his nose. Foyle took a step, one foot landed on something solid then smashed through the ice covering of a drain. Damn! Without waiting to see whether he’d been heard he dragged his foot out of the hole and launched himself at the door. He heard a shot but he was still moving so hopefully it hadn’t hit him.

From the corner of his eye he saw Browning begin to move. He threw his full weight against the door, the impact softened by the man in the way. There was a shout, a groan. He grabbed the door knob and yanked hard. The man fell to the floor but was still moving. Browning moved faster than Foyle thought possible over the muddy space and threw himself on top of the gunman. Something skittered across the yard but Foyle was clambering over the two on the ground. Were there more inside? Again he fleetingly wished he was uniformed, the truncheon providing a quick and easy way to stop a man, a whack on the back of the knees bringing him to the ground.

He blinked in the darkened room. Behind him the two men scuffled in almost silence. He moved further into the large room, ears alert for the slightest sound. Browning must have his hand over the gunman’s mouth, he realised, giving him a chance to hear any others. The room was empty but two doors led further into the house, both closed. Which one to take first?

Twenty past twelve, and Andrew would be home any minute for his lunch. He’d ask again, Rosalind thought. Should she tell him of her visit to the station? Should she begin to carefully ready him for the worst? The churning in the pit of her stomach had worsened during the morning. Wind had begun to dispel the fog and if that were the only problem they’d be back. Inspector Browning was a good sort; he’d not make Christopher stay and do a day’s work after a night out. He should be home by now. She swallowed hard and listened for Andrew’s steps outside the window.

“Heard from Dad yet?”

“No, not yet, love. I’m sure everything is well, though. You know what they say – no news is good news, bad news travels fast.”

“What do you think is taking him so long, Mum?”

“Oh, you know your Dad, how he likes to get everything in order. He’s probably sitting at his desk yawning over paperwork instead of coming home, silly man!”

“He’ll be back tonight, though, won’t he?”

Rosalind heard the fear in Andrew's voice and dispelled any trace of it from hers. “If he’s not, love, it will be for a very good reason. Now eat up!”

The reason didn’t bear thinking about.

Foyle put his hand on one doorknob as he heard the unmistakable thud of an unconscious body falling behind him. Browning stood up and went to the other door. Their eyes met and Foyle waited for his boss’ signal. At the nod of his head they both threw open the doors. Foyle heard Browning’s muffled curse but his attention was on the wooden cellar stairs leading down in front of him. Had he imagined that flicker of light, suddenly extinguished? He kept his back to the wall as he crept down into the darkness. A flash of light blinded him and something brushed past him going up, the smell of sweat and paraffin filled his nostrils. Then he was almost knocked down as two figures barrelled down past him. The flash had transformed into a blaze in the far corner of the cellar, and by its light he could see Browning underneath another man who had his hand raised. There was a glint of steel. Foyle jumped the few remaining treads and landed heavily on the man and, with a sickening feeling he wrenched the man’s neck, the familiar action one he’d hoped never to experience again. He heaved the body off Browning and felt for his boss’ pulse.

The smell hit him - dirty smoke that smelled of tar and cordite. His heart hammered and he retched. Under his fingers he felt a fluttering. Browning groaned. The smoke drifted visibly over their heads.

Foyle closed his eyes as the guns roared, the smoke surrounded them, the whine of the sniper’s bullet was so close he swore he felt it across his cheek. The warm body beneath him moved, a fat slug of humanity grovelling in the icy trench. He retched again and again, bringing up bile and little else. His ribs ached, his stomach cramped and he couldn’t feel his feet.

Browning stirred under him and he looked down. Reality came into focus, the roar of the fire getting nearer every second. He got his hands under Browning’s armpits and heaved, raising the man a little but not enough. The smoke was thicker now, his eyes stung and watered as he shifted the man inch by inch up the stairs. Despite the open door at the top of the stairway the smoke was forming a roiling layer on the ceiling. His mind knew he had to get up there but his body fought him at every move. He swallowed hard and fought the increasing nausea, knowing there was nothing left in his stomach.

Think, man! Think about something else – think about Andrew new-born and squalling, think about Roz’s fingers in your hair, think about anything but this! Do the job, get him out, ignore the muscles that have seized up with cold and fear, ignore the smoke and the smell and the way it drains energy from an exhausted body. Tears of frustration filled his eyes and he shrugged off his coat to get a better grip on his boss. The smoke filled his nose, his lungs, his mind…

The house smelled of beeswax. Rosalind had polished every wooden surface she could find and now she was sitting on the floor beside the bed, their wedding photograph in her hand. Christopher smart in his uniform, along with her father and brother – two generations who had fought for their country - herself shy and smiling. She’d thought she knew what love was when she’d stood there at his side in the church; her heart filled with joy every time he looked at her. But she hadn’t known; she hadn’t an inkling of what was to come, the way her heart would feel at bursting point at his touch, at the sweet smell of her son in her arms.

She held the photograph and cried until she had no more tears to cry. How would she explain to Andrew? How would she have the strength to carry on alone? How did all the women whose young men had not come home live their lives without them?

It was just after three when the car came up the street. Rosalind ran to the window, saw a filthy ragged figure emerge from the vehicle and stagger up the steps. If it had not been for the curls she would not have recognised him.

The young driver got out and rang the bell.

“Here he is, Mrs Foyle, the hero returns. He’s in a bit of a state, mind.”

Christopher stood very still in the hallway as the constable related how Rivers had sent a search party into the thinning fog, how a house-fire had diverted them, how they had found her husband collapsed at the side of the injured Browning in the mud outside the house. He didn’t move a muscle as she heard how he had hauled his boss out of the cellar, through the now burning kitchen and out into the icy yard. He seemed not to hear as the constable told how it looked as if a sought-after gang had been identified from papers found in the car behind the building; a car that also held a flat cap. She looked at her husband’s dirty, ripped suit, his bleeding hands and his shoeless feet. She looked at his emotionless face and recognised the look in his eyes.

“Thank you, constable,” she said cheerily, “I’ll look after him now.”

The most difficult thing that evening, she found, was preventing Andrew from going into the bedroom and waking his father. She’d managed to clear up most of the mess but even an eight-year old could not miss the smell that remained. He’d asked some awkward questions which she’d answered as best she could. She’d not said anything about heroism and duty and freedom. Instead she’d talked about loyalty and love and facing one’s fears. Christopher had stood motionless in the bathroom as she’d removed the ruined clothing. He didn’t seem to understand when she’d tried to get him into the bath, so she’d cleaned him up as best she could. She’d got him into bed and peeled off his socks before washing his feet. She’d sat by his side, as he lay, eyes wide open, re-living who knew what, an occasional twitching of his body the only movement. She’d talked incessantly about Andrew, about their lives together, her voice as monotonous as she could make it. Finally his eyes had closed and his breathing had become regular.

Foyle registered the fact that the air was fragrant, spicy, flowery almost. Was this a dream of life before the hell, of lying prone on the flower covered cliffs watching the waves? Or had he survived the last attack and was in hospital again? He tentatively stretched his body under the clean sheets. He was sore, and felt sluggish, old even. But whole, thank God, and clean.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Relief washed over him like paint from her brush.

“Roz.”

He opened his eyes to the familiar room, a bedside lamp illuminating the small space. Rosalind was sitting at his bedside, her knitting placed on the small table at her side.

“How do you feel?”

She brushed a stray hair from his face and he remembered why everything ached.

“Browning?” he croaked.

“A suspected broken arm, but otherwise just bruised, dirty and tired much like you.”

“Throat hurts,” he managed. “Feel like death warmed up.”

She laughed. “You look it, my love. Tea? Soup? Something more substantial?”

Foyle considered. He was ravenous but experience had taught him how restraint could benefit the body as well as the emotions.

“Just soup, please,” he whispered and tears came to his eyes at the normality and comfort of that simple request.

He didn’t need to say anything else – she was at his side, her arms wrapped around him soothingly.

“Andrew will be up soon, wanting to know all about it,” she said softly. “Do you want me to tell him you’re still asleep?

“No.” He struggled to sit up and she propped a pillow behind his back.

Her dark eyes looked into his. “Be careful what you say to him. Don’t want him worrying about you more than he already does.”

He put his arms around her waist.

“Sorry if I worried you,” he murmured. “I tried to send a message but – .

He closed his eyes at the memory of the roadside object that he now knew to be Fred Dent.

“Don’t be silly,” she said softly. “Why would I be worried? You’re a sensible, capable man. You know how to look after yourself; I knew you’d find your way home however thick the fog.”

Something inside him loosened. That was all he needed.

In the pre-dawn light of the kitchen Rosalind sobbed quietly as the soup bubbled gently.

**Author's Note:**

> Time due to COVID lockdown prompted me to review all my writing, fragments and completed work, languishing on various USB sticks. This one was first posted on a private site and makes its appearance here slightly edited.
> 
> Thanks go to Kivrin on two counts – firstly she suggested exploring how a young Rosalind coped with the difficulties of having a policeman husband, thus prompting this story, and secondly letting me appropriate her idea that smoke was something that triggered young Foyle’s memories of the Great War.


End file.
